


the warmest bed i’ve ever known

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Best Friends, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, New Year's Eve, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Clarke has few Christmas traditions. She comes home on Christmas eve. Puts the star on the tree, that her dad always leaves off until she gets there. Watches a trashy Christmas movie with her mom. And she fucks Bellamy Blake.Loosely based on Taylor Swift’s tis the damn season.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 102
Kudos: 445





	the warmest bed i’ve ever known

**Author's Note:**

  * For [star_sky_earth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_sky_earth/gifts).



> For Mary, who enticed me into writing this fic. Merry Christmas, happy birthday, happy new year and all that ❤️  
> (I don’t actually know when your birthday is but we’re including it anyway)
> 
> and bell will disown me if i don’t mention them apparently 💜
> 
> Also warning I wrote half of this on my phone because my laptop isn’t working so there could be many more typos than usual.

Clarke has been home less than an hour before she gets into an argument with her mom. An unpleasant reminder of why she only comes home once a year, mostly out of obligation. She always looks forward to it, in the few days leading up to Christmas, because she always forgets just how aggravating her mother truly is. Her dad had locked himself in the basement with his model train as soon as Abby brought up the topic of Clarke’s love life. The last thing she wants to talk about after a six hour drive.

“I really thought I was going to meet this one,” Abby says, her disappointment evident. As if Clarke getting married is her highest hope for her daughter. As if Clarke isn’t already a successful lawyer in LA, making more than either of her parents now, and that’s saying something.

But Abby never deigns to praise her daughter for  _ that _ , for her hard work, her success. All she ever wants to talk about is when she’s going to settle down.

“Well, it didn’t work out,” Clarke hisses through her gritted teeth, trying to stop herself from saying something ruder. It’s her mom, and it’s Christmas eve. She’s going to  _ try  _ to get along with her.

Still, despite the living room being warm and cosy, decorations strung up, second glass of red wine in her hand, the air has turned frosty since Abby brought up Cillian’s name.

“I don’t understand why,” Abby pushes, though it should be clear Clarke isn’t in the mood to talk about it. “You were together… eleven months, wasn’t it?” Clarke rolls her eyes. As if Abby hasn’t memorised the exact date Clarke made it official with Cillian. Not that Clarke  _ told  _ her mom. But Abby seems to have her sources—Clarke isn’t surprised. She could count on one hand—scratch that, one finger—how many loyal friends she has.

“Yes, Mom,” Clarke sighs.

“Your longest relationship yet. And he was a doctor. And he seemed so nice.”

“He was a TV doctor,” Clarke huffs. “And you never even met him.”

“You make it sound like he was an actor,” Abby scolds. “He was a real doctor. Just because he happened to be on TV—”

“If he actually cared about saving lives and not fame, he wouldn’t be on TV at all,” Clarke points out.

The truth is, Clarke hadn’t cared about all that at first. She agreed with her mom—he was so nice. And a doctor. And good looking, and he treated her well. She met him on New Year’s Eve last year, at a party a client had invited her to, and she’d ended up back at his place. And he was fun and she liked him so it turned into something more.

But then a few weeks ago, he just started to  _ annoy  _ her, until the point she couldn’t take it anymore, and she broke up with him. And uninvited him to Christmas with her family.

“You seemed so happy with him until a week ago,” Abby complains.

“And then I wasn’t,” Clarke huffs. “Seriously, can we drop this? I’d literally rather watch dad play with his train set than have this conversation.”

“I’m just trying to understand, Clarke,” Abby says defensively. “Why you can’t seem to keep a partner for more than a few months. Why you’re always single at Christmas.”

“Not everything is about you,” Clarke says. “I’m not doing it to spite you. When I meet the right person, you’ll meet them, okay?”

“But—”

“Oh my god,” Clarke groans. She stands up, draining the rest of her wine in one gulp. “I’ve had enough. I’m going out.”

“Clarke, it’s almost midnight,” Abby says. “And you’ve been drinking.”

“So, I’ll walk,” she shrugs, heading for the coatrack. She pulls her coat on over her tight red skirt and black turtleneck, and tugs her ankle boots on over her black tights. She completes the look with a black beanie over her blonde curls.

Abby regards her with an expression of knowing exasperation, that Clarke chooses to ignore. She rolls her eyes at her mom, like she’s sixteen, not twenty-nine.

“Lunch is at one!” Abby calls after her. “Tell him he’s welcome, we’ll have plenty of food!”

The front door slams behind her, and Clarke doesn’t have to pretend she has no idea who her mom is talking about.

Of course, her legs take her in the direction of the best bar in town—it was always her destination, whether she admitted it to herself or not. Maybe the fight with her mom was an excuse to come.

It’s snowing now, only gently, dusting her dark coat in white as she walks along the empty road, hands in her pockets. Almost every house on the street has some elaborate Christmas display, the gaudy lights so bright the streetlights are almost unnecessary.

She makes it to the bar in less than ten minutes, and it’s not because she’s  _ eager,  _ it’s just because it’s so cold out, which made her walk faster than usual. She pauses in front of it for just a moment, catching her breath. A glowing orange neon sign reads  _ Octavia’s  _ in cursive above the door. Clarke had not been surprised when he told her he named the bar after his sister. But then, that’s one of the things she likes about him. That he’s predictable. Steady.

She pushes the door open, and is met with a rowdy but joyous crowd, and it seems like half the town is here tonight. Yet she spots him immediately, her body attuned to him like he’s metal and she’s a magnet. He’s leaning on the bar, talking to a patron, his biceps bulging in a black t-shirt, his forearms looking particularly sturdy.

He glances in her direction—not like he knows she’s there. More like it’s a habit. Like maybe he’s been checking the door all night, waiting for her. It is tradition, after all.

She has few Christmas traditions. She comes home on Christmas eve. Puts the star on the tree, that her dad always leaves off until she gets there. Watches a trashy Christmas movie with her mom. And she fucks Bellamy Blake.

His face breaks into a grin when he sees her, and it’s clear he’s stopped listening to the woman talking to him. Clarke breathes a sigh of relief. She doesn’t even know what she’s relieved about. She just feels lighter, somehow.

Bellamy rounds the bar and weaves through the crowd, until he’s standing in front of her.

“Wasn’t sure you’d make it,” he says.

Clarke smiles. “I made it,” she replies.

He pulls her into a bone crushing hug then, and Clarke buries her nose into his shoulder as she throws her arms around him. Nobody else hugs her quite like this. Makes her feel like everything is going to be alright without saying anything. After twenty-something years, and despite her infrequent visits, somehow he’s still her best friend.

“You want a drink?” he offers, pulling away. “On the house.”

“Always.”

He takes her hand as he leads her to the bar, so she doesn’t get lost in the crowd, she assumes. She trails along behind him, and he checks on her over his shoulder a couple of times, even though he’s still got his fingers entwined with hers. Her pulse beats erratically.

He seems to have saved a stool by the bar just for her, and he shoos some people away as he helps her onto it, extremely unnecessarily, his big hands on her waist, on her hips, on her thigh, briefly touching her like he knows the specific combination to get her skin tingling, and a hot, heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, yet with the same nonchalance as he pours a shot of tequila.

“What’ll be?” he asks, once he’s back on the other side of the bar.

She’s already been drinking red wine, so she decides to stick with that, and a few moments later there’s a glass of Shiraz in front of her.

“I’ve got to keep working,” he says. She’d taken off her coat and hat while he made her drink, and his eyes dip to her figure-hugging turtleneck before meeting hers again. “You gonna stick around for a while?”

“I’ll be here,” Clarke nods.

She turns on her stool as she sips her drink, cradling her coat and hat on her lap. She’s startled to see a woman staring straight at her, and her expression could not exactly be described as friendly.

Clarke doesn’t think she recognises her, and she hasn’t lived here in over ten years, so it’s not surprising. Which begs the question—what has Clarke done to offend this woman so greatly? She doesn’t look away even when Clarke makes eye contact, and her death stare only intensifies. Clarke sips her drink, not giving the woman the satisfaction of either looking away or returning the glare.

Clarke smirks behind her glass, pleased, when the other woman looks away first, then turns back towards the bar. Bellamy glances towards her, and she tilts her head for him to come over. Moments later, he stands in front of her.

“Who’s the woman giving me the evil eye?” Clarke asks. Bellamy looks up, over her shoulder, and Clarke knows he’s spotted her when he grimaces.

“Ah,” he says. “That would be my girlfriend.”

Clarke’s stomach plummets fifteen stories, and she’s embarrassed to say her poker face falls, her disappointment written all over her face for him to see.

“Well, ex,” he corrects, with a wink. “Girlfriend until a week or so ago.”

Relief floods her chest, and she’s sure her cheeks are pink, knowing he noticed her reaction. She pretends like it didn’t happen.

“She seems to really hate me,” she says.

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees. He eyes her with a tiny smirk on his lips. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“Shut up,” Clarke mutters, her face turning redder. “You’re an asshole.”

He laughs, and it turns her insides to mush. “I was just making sure we were on the same page.” He reaches out to where her hand rests on the bar, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. The simple gesture sets her whole body alight.

“Well,” she says, recovering from her embarrassment, but not entirely from his touch. “It’s tradition, right?”

“Right,” he agrees. He nods seriously. “I’m closing in an hour. If we don’t get to talk before then, meet me by my truck.”

Clarke doesn’t think about the woman in the booth behind her. Bellamy’s ex-girlfriend. It’s no concern of hers who he dates. And it’s not like she  _ expects  _ him to be free for her at Christmas. It’s just, if they both happen to be single, why the hell not?

The hour seems to drag by, and the bar is far from empty when it’s time for last call. But eventually he gets everyone out of the bar, and Clarke follows the last person out, hoping Bellamy won’t take too long to clean up. She doesn’t expect him to be right behind her, locking up as he goes.

“Don’t you need to clean up?” she asks.

“It can wait,” he says. 

He leads her to his dirty truck, parked across the street, and she climbs up into the cab, sinking into the old familiar seat. It smells like him, a mix of his aftershave, of sweat, and pine, of stale cigarettes, and whiskey. Why she likes it, she’s not sure. She doesn’t dwell on it.

He puts the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life. He switches the radio from talkback to country, and an old Johnny Cash song is playing. There’s something so nostalgic about it, being here with him, so familiar and warm. Her life is so fast-paced, she barely has time to take a breath, always new people to meet, new places to go. Has to be up with the latest gossip, the latest trends, can’t let her guard down for a single moment.

But here, with him, she can slow down. Just for the weekend.

Her skin is humming with anticipation as he drives, his hand on the gearshift, inches from her thigh. She likes watching him drive, like she likes watching him pour a drink. She could stare at his arms for hours, watch him do anything with his hands and never get bored of it. He spent half the summer after their senior year of high school building furniture out of wood in his garage, and Clarke would sit there and watch him, sipping on her pink lemonade, perfectly content, though he always offered to stop when she came over.

That was before they had sex for the first time, but the fantasies it inspired may have led to her making a move on him her first Christmas home from college. Three months of fingering herself to the thought of those hands on her, totally oblivious to any of her peers hitting on her. Then begging him to take her virginity that Christmas Eve.

_ Just once. Just to get it out of our systems. It doesn’t have to mean anything. _

And okay, the  _ just once  _ thing didn’t exactly pan out to be true. He fucking knows how to please a woman, and once she experienced that she should’ve known once wouldn’t be enough. But it’s still just as meaningless as the first time. It’s just really, really, really good sex, with a friend who also happens to like really, really, really good sex once a year.

She squirms in her seat, thinking about the last time, when he couldn’t even wait to take her home, just ate her out on the bar, the second everyone else was gone. He notices her fidgeting and reaches over to grab her hand. If he means it to calm her down, it doesn’t work. The gentle touch of his rough hands only makes her need grow.

They reach his house—one he owns, for the record. Clarke hasn’t gotten around to it yet. She does  _ want  _ to buy a house, and she has the money, it’s just it feels so  _ permanent _ , where everything else in her life feels temporary. Renting is much less of a commitment.

Bellamy is out of the truck in a flash, bounding over to open the door for her before she’s even gotten her seatbelt off. His hands find her waist, supporting her as she slides out of the truck, her body pressed against his. She’s wearing a thick coat and so is he, but she can still feel him radiating heat for her, the same way she’s pulsing for him.

She looks up, and her mouth his inches from hers, their breath intermingling, visible in the cold air. His mouth descends on hers, and she meets him halfway, her arms curling around his neck to pull him closer as his tongue delves into her mouth. Sometimes she wishes she never found out her best friend could kiss like that.

His kiss is fervent, messy, impatient. Like he’s been holding back for a year and the dam has finally burst. His urgency is intoxicating, contagious, and Clarke aches for him more than ever.

He breaks away, leaving Clarke to chase his lips with a whine, not ready for him to stop. But he grabs her around the waist, tucking her against his side as he shuts the truck door behind her and ushers her inside.

Deft fingers undo the buttons of her coat and she shrugs it off, his coat following hers to the floor a moment later, and then he’s tugging her against him again, every ridge in his body pressed against her, her tits crushed against his chest. His kisses are more languid now, teasing, like he’s showing off.

His hand drops to her ass, making her squeak as he gives a little pinch, the sound making him smile against her mouth. Clarke smiles back, until their teeth crash together, and she pulls away, smiling almost shyly.

“Come on,” he says, his voice gruff. He wraps his arms around her and picks her up, her knees gripping him tightly as he heads towards his bedroom, kicking his shoes off as he goes.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he breathes, letting her slip slowly from his arms and onto his bed.

“Me too,” Clarke admits. Bellamy sinks to his knees in front of her, pushing his hands under her sweater, signalling for her to take it off. She crosses her arms over her stomach, grabbing the hem of her turtleneck and pulling it over her head in one swift motion, revealing the lacy black bra she put on for him, barely containing her impressive rack.

He kisses the soft skin where she’s spilling out of her bra, caressing her the swell of her breasts with his mouth like he’s trying to memorise the taste of her. His lips never leave her skin as he reaches around to unclip her bra, then let it fall from her chest, slipping it over her arms. A soft moan escapes him as he takes her nipple into his mouth.

His hands skirt her waist and thighs, and he drags his mouth away from her tits as he pushes her skirt up. 

“Too many layers,” he grumbles at the sight of her tights. 

“I thought you liked undressing me,” Clarke laughs softly.

“Can’t you make it easy for me for once?” he grins. “Maybe a bikini?”

“That would require warmer weather,” she points out.

He pulls off her boots one by one, then slides his hands up her thighs to the top of her tights. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her tights, and she shimmies out of them as he pulls them down, lifting her hips so he can get them over her ass, then drags them off.

He presses his mouth to her inner thigh, pushing her legs apart. Her skin buzzes everywhere he touches her, electricity zapping through her like she’s a wire and he’s the power source. He pulls off his own sweater and shirt then, and Clarke’s hands are instantly on him without even realising she’s moved, her fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest and abs, a delight she never gets sick of.

“You’re so stupidly hot,” she complains. “I don’t know how I ever became friends with you when you’re so hot.”

“I lured you into friendship with my patheticness before you realised I was going to get hot, and by then it was too late.”

“Someone should have warned me that gawky history nerd was going to turn into this.”

“And if I’d known the bossy goody-two-shoes who felt sorry for me in fifth grade was going to turn into  _ you,  _ I would’ve stayed well away.”

“Only because you were scared of girls until you were seventeen.”

“I was  _ not _ .”

“Shut up,” Clarke says, his adamant defensiveness making her laugh. She silences him with a kiss, and he gladly obeys her, taking her lead and kissing her back with the same fond familiarity as she kisses him. Having sex with him—from foreplay to orgasm—is always so  _ fun.  _

He stands to remove his pants, only breaking the kiss at the last second, and Clarke helps him, pushing his hands away so she can undo his fly herself, anticipation pulsing through her as she hurriedly pulls his jeans and boxers down to reveal his enormous, throbbing cock.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “Fuck, fuck.” She presses her legs together, feeling arousal drip into her panties as she leans forward to run her tongue over him. The groan he lets out makes her shiver, makes her take him deeper into her mouth while she wraps a hand around the base of him. Fuck, she wants to choke on him. Wants his cock inside her, she doesn’t care where, just knows she needs him deep, to satisfy her intense craving.

“God, look at you with your mouth on my cock,” he groans. “Never been with anyone who likes sucking cock as much as you do.”

Shit, it shouldn’t turn her on so much to hear him say stuff like that. She loves his dirty mouth, loves how he can treat her like a filthy whore in the bedroom, but be totally casual with her in the light of day, like they really are just best friends.

She pushes him down her throat as far as she can go, until she can’t breathe, and he jerks his hips against her face involuntarily, making her whine. She slips her free hand between her legs, teasing herself over her panties, feeling how damp they are already.

“Are you touching yourself?” he grunts. Clarke hums her affirmation. Bellamy grabs her by her hair and gently pries her off his cock. She pouts up at him. “I want to come in your pussy, not your mouth,” he tells her. “And I want to be the one touching you.”

She nods, and while he kicks off his pants and boxers, she shimmies out of her skirt and shuffles backwards on the bed. He’s grinning when he joins her, catlike in the way he moves towards her on his hands and knees, somehow predatory and soft at the same time.

He crawls on top of her, his knuckles rubbing the side of her stomach as he kisses her deeply. She lets him be the one to pull her panties off—there’s something so sexy about the way he hooks his big fingers into the waistband and drags them down her thighs, leaving her naked for him. Perhaps it’s something to do with them being  _ just friends _ , and yet him knowing her like  _ this  _ too.

And he truly does know her. Knows exactly where to put his fingers to make her buck against his hand, knows when to go hard and when to back off, until she’s a writhing, panting mess beneath him. 

“Bellamy,” she gasps. “I need you inside me.” 

“Okay,” he whispers, and he pushes his thick fingers into her cunt. She whines. As good as it feels, she knows he knows that’s not what she wants. 

“Your cock, you fucking smart ass,” she groans. He chuckles, his mouth against her shoulder. “Please,” she wails pathetically, when he still doesn’t move.

“How bad do you want it, baby?” 

Oh god, the word  _ baby  _ makes her blush, makes her squirm on his fingers. He only calls her that when they’re like this. 

“So bad,” she whispers. “Please, Bell, I’m so horny. Please.”

He removes his fingers from her pussy, with a wet sound that makes her flush with embarrassment. God, he gets her fucking wet. 

She feels his cock bump against her slit then, and tilts her hips towards him, a silent, desperate invitation. She grips onto him tightly as he pushes inside her, stretching her open. Once a year is not enough to get used to his size, and no one else she’s been with has ever really compared.

“God, Clarke,” he whispers. “Baby, you’re so tight.” 

Clarke just whimpers, her pussy fluttering around his cock as he gently rocks his hips into her. He slowly builds up a rhythm, letting her get used to his size before he really starts fucking her, working her pliant, eager body to the edge of orgasm with his huge cock.

She’s thankful he lives alone, though her cries may even be loud enough to be heard by neighbours—it’s not her  _ fault _ . She has no control of her own voice when he has her like this. 

“You almost there, baby?”

“Yes,” Clarke moans. “I’m—I’m going to—“

“That’s it, come on my cock,” he grunts, the effort it’s taking him to keep from coming himself evident in his voice. 

“ _ Bellamy _ ,” she moans breathily, pleasure pulsing through her as she reaches her climax, her fingernails digging into his back, her cunt clenching around him, flooding his cock with her juices. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Clarke.  _ Clarke _ ,” he whimpers, his voice breaking. Somehow, him moaning her name into her ear while he comes is even more intimate than the way he casually integrates the term of endearment  _ baby  _ into his dirty talk. Baby could be for anyone.  _ Clarke  _ is for her.

His hips stutter as he comes, and she can feel him fill her up, a feeling of satisfaction blooming in her chest, partly to due to her own orgasm and partly because of his. It feels good to make him feel good.

He kisses her sweetly, happy, content. He lifts his weight off her, slipping out of her, leaving her empty as he falls to the bed beside her. She lets him bundle up his arms and snuggles into his chest, safe and warm. 

She doesn’t normally cuddle with one night stands—or one night a year stands, or whatever. But it’s different with him. She  _ likes  _ to be cuddled, and he knows that, and he’s good at it. And they have an understanding, they both know what this is. The cuddling doesn’t have to mean anything else.

“You know,” Clarke murmurs, “if you did have a girlfriend, I wouldn’t be mad or hold it against you. I hope you didn’t break up with her so you didn’t disappoint me.”

Bellamy snorts. “Not everything is about you, Clarke.” 

“But you were with her up until last week.”

“And  _ you  _ were still calling Mr TV Doctor  _ babe  _ on Instagram until a week ago,” he counters. “I don’t presume it has anything to do with me.”

Clarke considers this. “Do you have Instagram?” she asks, lifting her head to look at him.

Colour floods his cheeks. “I—“

She slaps his arm playfully. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she grins. She knows he thinks social media is only for shallow people, so it’s actually obvious to her why he didn’t say anything. “Where’s my phone?” she says, wriggling out of his arms. “I need to follow you.”

“Nope,” he says, clamping his arms tightly around her, stopping her from going searching for her phone. Probably for the best, since she thinks she might have left it in his truck. “I don’t even really use it.”

“Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. She’s desperately curious, considering he’s so embarrassed about it. He probably posts gym selfies on there. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks, hurriedly changing the topic.

“Having Christmas lunch with my parents,” she answers, indulging him, though she does the same thing every year. “What about you? Is Octavia coming home?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy with her new boyfriend,” he huffs. “She’s spending Christmas with  _ his  _ family.”

“You can come have lunch with us if you like,” Clarke says. “Mom says there’s plenty of food.”

He hesitates, regarding her with an unreadable expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course,” Clarke says. “It’s stupid for you to be alone.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and his voice sounds strangely affected, though he looks pleased. 

“Then it’s settled,” Clarke says. She buries her head back into his chest, letting the beat of his heart and the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull her to sleep.

-

She wakes in his soft, warm bed, draped over him, and most of the bed, like she owns it. He’s awake, but he doesn’t seem to mind the invasion. 

“Morning,” he smiles, and Clarke returns the smile sleepily. 

“What time is it?”

“Little after ten,” he says. “You want some breakfast?”

“Can we eat in bed?” she asks, and he laughs, and she knows he’s thinking about how her mom threw a fit the time they had a picnic on her four poster bed, getting crumbs everywhere. Abby had forbidden her from eating in her room ever again.

“Absolutely,” he says.

“Then, yes.”

He gets up—she forgot that would have to happen, and she tries not to sulk as he leaves her to go to the kitchen. She drifts back to sleep, waking again twenty minutes later to the smell of fresh cooked bacon and hot chocolate.

He’s wearing a dressing gown, half open, and his curls are all mussed from sleep. She almost tells him to fuck the bacon and eggs—she’ll have him for breakfast instead. But then he’s placing it on her lap, and he looks so pleased with himself, and he obviously went to a lot of trouble, even taking the time to make the plate look artistic, so she keeps her mouth shut.

He hands her a drink, mini marshmallows floating on top of it. “This is lovely, but I think I’m going to need coffee at some point,” she says, taking a sip.

“It’s mocha,” he tells her, and she supposes that’s good enough.

He leaves the room again, and returns moments later with his own plate of food, delicately getting into bed beside her.

“This is so impractical,” Clarke says, trying to cut through her toast on her lap. Plus, she’s still naked and trying to keep the sheet over her breasts while she eats.

“I won’t tell your mom you agree with her,” Bellamy says, eyes glinting. She picks off a piece of too-crispy bacon and throws it at him.

“You better not,” she says, poking out her tongue. “And if you ever take my mom’s side over mine, I’m disowning you.”

“As if I don’t know that already.”

After breakfast, Bellamy leaves the dishes in the sink, and crawls back into bed with her. She kisses him with her mocha breath, her pulse quickening when his hands creep under the sheets to touch her gently. She pushes him down, leans over him, presses her mouth to his shoulder, peppers kisses down his collarbone and across his chest, kissing him all over his body, worshipping him, until he can’t stand it, and he flips her over, then fucks her from behind. And even though she can’t see him, it’s so fucking slow and soft that she feels closer to him than ever.

They drop back to sleep, and wake up again later, in each other’s arms, reluctantly dragging themselves to the shower, where he presses her against the wall and fucks her again, somewhere between the lethargic love-making of this morning, and the urgent, desperate sex of last night.

It’s well after one by the time he pulls into the Griffin’s driveway, both of them smug and satisfied, yet somehow burning for more. They clamp down on their idiotic smiles as they reach the front door, glancing at each other like they’re sharing a secret.

Abby greets Bellamy with a hug, and Clarke with a scolding for being so late. Jake is seated at the table already, food sprawled out in front of him.

“Looks great, Mrs Griffin,” Bellamy grins, taking a seat across from Clarke at the table. Clarke rolls her eyes. Of course he knows Abby didn’t prepare any of it—but he’ll wander into the kitchen later to thank the cook. Something Clarke had never thought to do before she met him, but now she always makes sure to.

The food is good, and the wine is better. Bellamy seems to act as an excellent buffer, and Abby doesn’t bring up Clarke’s love life at all. Bellamy only makes one sardonic comment in regards to Abby and Clarke’s strained relationship, and Clarke kicks him under the table, but it flies right over Abby’s head.

And when they’re all stuffed, they retire to the living room, Clarke curling up on the couch beside Bellamy, the wine making her weary, and she can’t help but let her head drop to his chest. His arm snakes around her, almost subconscious, if the way he doesn’t break conversation with her father at all is any indication. She can feel her mom’s eyes on her from across the room, but she can’t be bothered caring.

Jake brings up his model train then, and Bellamy makes the mistake of acting interested, and Jake immediately invites him down to look at it. Of course, Bellamy politely agrees, though he looks to Clarke with a concerned question in his eyes— _ will you be okay here without me?  _

She gives him a reassuring nod, and he offers her a terrified grimace as her dad leads him down to the basement. 

“Shall we put a movie on?” Abby suggests, once the men are out of earshot, and Clarke agrees, because it’s the only activity the two of them can do together for an extended length of time without getting into an argument. Except Abby can’t resist talking, even with the extremely riveting cliche hallmark Christmas movie playing.

“You two are very cosy,” Abby muses, her eyes still on the screen.

“Who?” Clarke also continues pretending to watch the movie.

A glance from Abby. “You know,” she says, exasperated. “You and Bellamy.”

Clarke shrugs. “We’re best friends.”

“Uh huh,” Abby says, disbelieving.

Clarke scoffs, gearing up for an argument. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

“If he’s the reason—”

“The reason for what, exactly?” Clarke snaps, pausing the movie to turn to her mother.

“The reason your relationships fail. I’m not mad,” she adds quickly. “I just want you to be happy, Clarke.”

“I am happy,” Clarke snaps.

“But you’d be happier with him.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Clarke says, her tone icy. “You’re so desperate for me to hurry up and have a husband and kids, you’re inventing some hallmark romance in your head, because apparently everything else I’ve achieved isn’t enough.”

“Clarke—” Abby starts, taken aback.

“Enough, Mom,” Clarke cuts her off, jumping to her feet. “This is the last fucking Christmas I’m spending here.”

She storms into the basement, tears pricking her eyes. Bellamy looks up from the train, and she doesn’t even have to say anything before he’s at her side. He grabs her hand, throws a quick goodbye over his shoulder at Jake, and leads her back to his truck.

They’re in the car for ten minutes before Clarke calms down enough to notice they don’t seem to have a particular destination in mind.

“Where are we going?” she asks quietly.

Bellamy shrugs. “Just driving around. You used to love that.” Clarke nods. “What happened?”

“Mom,” Clarke snorts. “She won’t let up about my love life. She doesn’t care who I marry as long as it’s as soon as possible.”

Bellamy hesitates. “Your mom doesn’t seem the type to care about that kind of thing,” he says.

“What did I say about taking my mom’s side?”

“Right,” he coughs. “Your mom is a fucking bitch. Should we key her car?”

A laugh escapes her, much to her surprise. Shit, how does he always know how to make her feel better? “You know what would really cheer me up?”

“What’s that?”

“Seeing your Instagram account.”

It’s his turn to laugh now. “Fine,” he agrees. He drives a little longer, then finds somewhere to pull over—the McDonald’s parking lot. He fishes his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, then hands it over to her. 

She opens Instagram, and the first photo on the feed is her last one—the one with Cillian in front of his Christmas tree, from over a week ago, with the caption  _ Happy Holidays, babe! _

Clarke clicks on Bellamy’s profile—gladiator1991. He doesn’t have any followers, and he only follows one person.

Clarke swallows. “Did you make this account just to follow me?”

He shrugs, looking guilty. “We don’t keep in touch that much during the year. I just—I just like knowing what you’re up to. I miss you when you’re gone.”

She hands him back his phone. Her chest aches with some unfathomable emotion. “Can we go back to your place?” she asks.

He starts the truck back up, and they’re back at his house in two minutes. Her lips are on his as soon as they’re through the front door.

“You’re not mad I made a secret Instagram just to follow you?” he manages to get out between her ferocious kisses. She shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “But you should post some gym selfies, and I’ll follow you back.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling as he kisses her. 

They don’t make it to his room this time. She pulls him into the living room—it’s closer—shedding clothes as she goes. She pushes him down onto the couch, tugging off her tights before straddling his lap, his cock pressed against her burning centre through her panties and his jeans.

His hands slip under her camisole—her sweater didn’t make it into the living room—and he caresses her tits, panting slightly as she rubs her pussy against his bulge.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “I never get enough of you.”

He helps her out of her camisole, and then her bra, and then his fingers are between her legs, pushing aside the fabric of her panties so he can play with her pussy while his mouth gives her tits the attention she craves.

She comes on his fingers, tossing her head back, a silent moan on her lips. She’s not done though, reaching between them, shifting her weight so she can get to his crotch and undo his jeans. 

She frees his cock with some effort—his constant kisses on her neck and shoulders only hindering her, yet she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop. 

She doesn’t bother removing her panties, just pushes them aside as he had done so she can sink onto his erection with a soft whine.

He grips his arm around her waist, holding her steady as he thrusts up into her, and she rides him shamelessly, chasing the high like an addict looking for her next hit. 

She drops her head to his shoulder as she gets close, and he whispers filthy things into her ear until she comes apart on top of him, moaning unintelligibly. 

He comes inside her moments later, whining her name desperately. She folds against him, both of them panting, the skin on skin contact a welcome reminder that even if she has no one else, at least she has  _ him. _

They eventually make it to the bedroom, and after he’s lazily brought her to orgasm twice with his mouth, he orders a pizza, only getting out of bed to retrieve it when it arrives, then crawling right back in with her.

Clarke picks at her slice, barely hungry. She’ll have to go back to her parents’ house at some point, to collect her stuff and say goodbye to her dad. It’s not  _ his  _ fault her mom is a complete bitch. But she can’t possibly stay in that house a second longer.

“You know you’re always welcome here, right?” Bellamy says, reading her mind like he always does. “If you don’t want to stay with your mom next time. You can stay here.”

Clarke gives him a weak smile. “Thanks.”

He seems to intuit that it’s time to change the subject. “What are your plans for New Year’s Eve?”

Clarke shrugs. “I have a few invitations,” she says. “Guess I’ll end up at some party or another.”

He hesitates, then looks down at the pizza, taking a deep breath. “We’re having a thing at the bar,” he says. “You know, if you wanted to maybe spend it with me.”

He says it so nonchalantly, Clarke almost brushes it off as just  _ something to say.  _ But the way he looks up at her—intense, nervous—makes her stomach jolt. She tenses, shifting away from him instinctively. 

“Why would you ask me that?” she bristles. “You know I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“It’s just a question, Clarke,” he says.

“It’s not just a question.”

He regards her with an indecipherable look, a look that makes her want to run.

“Okay,” he agrees. “You’re right. It’s not just a question. I just—thought I’d ask.” His jaw tightens, and he can’t look at her, and she begins to realise just how serious he really is, just how important her answer is to him. 

“And what exactly  _ are  _ you asking?”

He releases a tiny groan, rubbing his face, looking like he wishes he never opened his mouth. “Clarke,” he says, and it’s just her name, but it feels so fucking loaded, infused with emotions she can’t even name. “I’m just asking you to stay a little longer. With me. God. You have to know—“

“Don’t.” she says, warning, flying off the bed before he can finish, clutching his sheet to her naked body. But he doesn’t stop. 

“I spend all year waiting for you—“

“I never  _ asked  _ you to do that!”

“I know! Fuck, will you just let me finish? It can’t be a fucking surprise that I’m in love with you.”

He’s said it now, and she wants him to take it back, but she knows he won’t, even if could. 

“Stop,” she snaps. “You’re ruining everything.” There are tears on her cheeks, but she doesn’t remember how they got there. 

He stands, hurt evident in his eyes. “Jesus,” he huffs, trying to mask his pain with anger. “God forbid I even ask for what I want.”

“What  _ do  _ you want, Bellamy?” Clarke cries. “You want me to quit my job, move back here so I can marry you and pump out three of your kids?”

She sees the blow land, and it hurts her to hurt him, but what did he expect? He  _ knew  _ what this was, he’s always known. 

“I want what I’ve always wanted. Whatever the fuck you’re willing to give me.”

Clarke shakes her head, once, words dying on her tongue.

He swallows, and when he speaks again, his voice is shaky, like he’s holding back tears. “I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve always loved you. I thought—this weekend, you made me think maybe you wanted more. And I don’t want to ask anything of you that you’re not willing to give. If it’s friendship, if it’s sex, if it’s—anything at all. Whatever you want. But I can’t pretend anymore that I’m not in love with you. And there’s never going to be anyone else for me. No one who matters.”

The words hit her right in the heart, pushing down on her chest until she can’t breathe. It’s too much, it’s too hard, she can’t give him what he wants, can’t put him through what is obviously torture any longer.

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I  _ am  _ happy,” Clarke asserts for the second time that day.

“You’re not. You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t lie to me. I know you, Clarke. You hate your friends, you hate the people you date, and you hate that you’re defending asshole celebrities against DUIs when you could be doing something meaningful.”

“I have to go,” she says. She keeps the sheet wrapped around her as she heads for the living room to find her clothes.

“Clarke,” he calls, wounded. Tears drip down her face as she collects her clothes, pulling them on hurriedly. “Clarke!” he calls again, following her into the living room.

“I can’t do this,” she says. She can’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”

She pushes past him, and he grabs her arm, forcing her to stop and look at him.

“Please don’t go,” he says. He’s crying too now. She wrenches her arm free and turns her back on him. 

She hears him call her name one last desperate, strangled time before she slams the front door behind her. 

-

Tears freeze on her face as she walks back to her parents’ place, and a sick feeling settles itself in the pit of her stomach. 

She ignores her mom as she enters the house, heading straight upstairs to her room to grab her suitcase, thankfully left packed up. 

She grabs it by the handle, finds her keys on the bedside table and grabs her handbag. Her dad stands in the door when she looks up, blocking her way. 

“I’m leaving,” she says. “Bye, Dad.”

“Clarke, sweetie. Just hear your mom out. I know you two don’t always see eye to eye, but she really does just want what’s best for you.”

“This isn’t about Mom.”

Jake frowns. “Then why are you leaving in such a hurry?”

Clarke shakes her head, trying unsuccessfully to swallow down her tears before she speaks. The dam breaks as she chokes out his name. “Bellamy,” she sobs.

“What did he do? Do I need to kick his ass?”

Clarke shakes her head. “He said he loved me.”

“And that’s not a good thing?”

She shakes her head again. “We’re friends. He’s ruined everything.”

“Clarke,” her dad says, almost a reprimand. “Are you honestly telling me you don’t love him too?”

“Of course I do,” she huffs through her tears. “As a  _ friend.  _ I don’t want a relationship with him.”

“The best relationships are built on friendship,” Jake says knowingly. “And you can love someone in more than one way.”

“Dad—“

“I’ve never seen you look more comfortable, more content than when you’re with him. You sabotage all your other relationships whenever you get the chance to see him. I’ve always suspected—“

“What, Dad?”

“That there was something more between you two. If he could make you happy, don’t walk away because you’re scared.”

Clarke shakes her head, tears pouring. She drops her bags as her dad pulls her into a hug. 

“I think I really hurt him. But I can’t—the things he said—I don’t know,” she sobs. “I don’t think I can give him that. What he deserves.”

“He’s a grown man, Clarke. Give him some credit. I think he knows by now what he wants and what he deserves.”

Clarke pulls away. “I have to go. I’ll see you—“ she pauses. When will she see him? Will she be back next year? “I’ll call you,” she says instead.

Jake nods. He grabs her suitcase, gesturing for her to lead the way downstairs. 

Clarke calls out a short goodbye to her mom, and Abby follows them outside, watching from the front steps as Jake loads Clarke’s suitcase into her car. 

“Bye, Dad,” she whispers, giving him one last hug. Then she gets into her car and drives all the way back to LA, ignoring every urge to turn around. 

-

She doesn’t hear from Bellamy at all over the next week. She supposes he’s giving her space. She’s not entirely sure that’s what she wants.

She doesn’t hear from him, but she thinks about him constantly. She’s distracted from work, checking her phone constantly, hoping he’ll call or text or comment on her Instagram posts. 

She misses him so much it aches. And she always misses him when she gets back to LA, and maybe that’s why last year she fucked the first guy who looked vaguely like him.

But the ache is so much worse this time, her chest physically hurts, like maybe there’s something broken inside it.

She fantasises about him driving to LA, knocking on her door, making passionate love to her. As if he’d put himself through that after how she left him.

She feels wretched—he put it all out there, let himself be vulnerable for her, and she fucking tore out his heart and then stepped on it on her way out the door.

Which is exactly why she can’t be with him. Even if they’re right—Bellamy, her mom, her dad. Even if she is absolutely, desperately in love with him—and she’s beginning to realise that she is—she’s only going to fuck it up somehow. She won’t be what he wants her to be, what he needs. He doesn’t know what he’d be getting into. 

She goes out for lunch with her friends, a long lunch, since she’s unable to focus on work. The case is for an actor charged with assault for beating up a paparazzo while high on coke. It seems so  _ pointless.  _ She doesn’t even want him to get off, because he’s an asshole who deserves what’s coming to him.

Her so-called friends don’t even notice she’s barely there. They don’t ask her about her Christmas, or her family, or even her break up with Cillian, which, by rights should still be a fresh wound. It’s not the wound that’s paining her, though they don’t know that. They can’t tell her smiles are forced, that she finds them all dull and superficial.

She just wants Bellamy here to make her feel better. Wants him to hold her and tell her she’ll be okay, and she knows he would, even though she treated him like dirt the moment he tried to ask for more.

She hates herself for it. For leaving him, for not giving him an explanation. He’s the only good thing she had in her life and she ruined it. She ruined it because she was too scared to admit she’s fucking in love with him too. 

She doesn’t finish her lunch, just walks out without a word, no one even noticing her leave. And then she cries in her car for the better part of an hour, longing for Bellamy.

She dresses up for a New Year’s Eve party she doesn’t feel like going to. The party doesn’t start until eight, but she promised a friend—a friend? Someone she knows—she’d go for drinks with them at six.

She grabs her phone from the counter, about to head out, just as it chimes with a notification. An Instagram post from gladiator1991. She opens it automatically.

Her heart spasms. His first Instagram post. The dots down the bottom suggest five photos. Clarke flicks through them before she reads the caption. 

A picture of the neon sign outside his bar. A picture of his house. A selfie of him and his sister. A gym selfie—she chokes out a watery laugh at that. And lastly, a selfie of the two of them, the summer after high school, taken on the digital camera her mom gave her for her seventeenth birthday.

She finally lets herself read the caption.

_ Well, another year over. Sometimes they seem like they’re slipping by with nothing meaningful to mark them. But I have to remember all the great things in my life. I own a bar, and my own home. I have a sister I love (most of the time). Not to mention my great body. (That’s a joke). And my best friend.  _

_ I’ve lived almost thirty years on this planet, and they haven’t all been good, but they haven’t all been bad either.  _

_ I think the most important thing I’ve learned this year is always be honest _ — _ with yourself and with those you love. Even if it hurts.  _

_ Happy new year. I love you. _

It takes a moment, mostly because she’s too busy crying, but it eventually occurs to Clarke that she’s the only one who can see this post. Which means he made it just for her. 

She brushes her tears away with the back of her hand. Without taking another second to think about it, she grabs her keys, and runs out to her car. 

It’s a little before six—if traffic isn’t too bad she should make it by midnight. 

She doesn’t feel a single ounce of doubt as she drives back to her hometown. It’s like something finally clicked into place. Something her dad said, something Bellamy said, something she refused to let herself believe.

Because Bellamy is a grown man, with a full life, who knows exactly who he is and what he wants. And he’s known her her whole life practically, knows her better than anyone, knows exactly who she is, maybe even better than she knows herself. 

And she loves him. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself for a long time, but she loves him and she can’t seem to bury that feeling back under layers of self doubt. 

So if all that is true, and she wants him, and he wants her back—then shouldn’t that be enough?

She hates her life in LA. Hates her so-called friends, her rich celebrity clients, hates that it never snows. And she hates that it took her so long to figure that out.

She makes it into town at 11:54. Cars line the street in front of the bar, making it impossible to find a place to park. Impatient, she double parks, not giving a fuck if she gets a ticket. 

She races inside, pushing through the crowd towards the bar. She spots him, grinning as he places a couple of shots on the bar. Her heart lurches. God, it’s so fucking obvious she’s in love with him. She feels like a complete idiot for not realising it sooner. 

He doesn’t notice her, and it’s too loud to call out to him. Instead, she hoists herself up onto the bar, sitting on it, probably getting beer stains all over her pretty gold dress. 

He looks over, frowning, looking like he’s about to give her a scolding. His expression changes from annoyance to surprise as he realises it’s her. 

He walks over, somewhat warily. 

“What are you doing here?”

Someone across the room starts the countdown, and the rest of the bar joins in.

“I saw your Instagram post.”

_ Eight, seven.  _

“And?”

_ Six. Five. _

“I’m sorry. I’ve been such an idiot. And I love you too.”

_ Four. Three. _

“Yeah?” he swallows, searching her eyes for confirmation.

_ Two. _

“Will you forgive me?”

_ One. Happy new year! _

He kisses her. Leans up over the bar to slip his tongue into her mouth, and she almost falls in her enthusiasm to kiss him back. She laughs, pulling away, and he’s got a fucking pleased smile plastered on his face. 

He grabs her by the waist and helps her over onto his side of the bar, kissing her again as soon as her feet are on solid ground. There are some wolf whistles and some annoyed customers demanding drinks, but Clarke barely notices them, and Bellamy doesn’t seem to either.

It’s only common decency that stops them from having their way with each other right there. 

Eventually though, Bellamy breaks the kiss, though he doesn’t move away from her. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he promises. “Marriage, kids.”

“I don’t know yet,” she admits. “At least about kids.”

“Marriage?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“I think I could probably see myself marrying you,” she grins. 

He kisses her. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“Okay.” Another kiss.

“I should probably keep working,” he says reluctantly. “We can talk later, okay?”

Clarke nods. “Okay.” She can’t stop beaming. 

He fixes her a pink lemonade champagne cocktail before he gets back to work. And Clarke, of course, is happy just to watch him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
